The Roar of the Greasepaint

The Roar of the Greasepaint. The Smell of the Crowd. the Anthony Newley-Leslie Bricisse extravaganza, has more scatological double-entendres than you could shake your...fist at. Vomiting gets a big laugh, as does a jock in drag. There is much belching, and some to-do over a lower-class character's use of obscenity (which, alas, is far from sufficiently feisty).

I really don't know why talented student groups persist in staging plays which were rotten on Broadway in the first place. I recently caught a Tufts production of Man of La Mancha which also induced spasmodic bursts of embarrassment. Both plays resonate with thumping Vague Generalities; both persuade the audience that things'll turn out all right with a little assertion of personal rights and a lot of hope. (Both also portray beggars and criminals and lumpenproletariat as lovable urchins, but the political implications of this are so ludicrous that to point them out seems priggish). There is a blight on musical comedy, there has been one for Rodgers knows how long. so why not just admit it and return to the revue?

Roar's action is simple; so is its mind. A Big Man named Sir plays a Game of Life with Cocky, the Little Guy. Sir owns all the Pieces, and makes the Rules as he goes along. Cocky persevers, "thinking" that he'll win someday, until he meets...the Negro. The Negro sets him straight by showing him that every man can win if he plays his own way. (Actually, whether it means that, or whether the Game is no damn good, is never made clear). Cocky first makes demands, then deserts the Game for good. He only comes back to ask Sir to join in the New World or whatever he is creating.

The performance is very pleasant. (As I'm a sucker for spirituals, even for fake-cheery ones. I found the Negro's (Leonard Easter's) "Feelin'Good" more than pleasant.) All the parts are essentially ham turns, and they're played until every last ounce of fat is caught. The choreography is, appropriately, elbow-swinging and gymnastic (except for a nice, modest ballet by Debbie Coleman). The new Leverett House Old Library Theater, with its small scale and wood panelling, is quite cozy--one enters through the stage, which is attractively cluttered with Jack Hanick's set: bright, upended trapezoid canvases lining the staircases and covering exits. And Ken Kanter has done an efficient, unpretentious job of moving the actors on that stage. His is an "amateur" production in the best sense: everyone in it seems to be having a good time, and the warmth comes across. At times, in fact, the melodies (not the lyrics) and the general good cheer of the enterprise overcome all else.

But they never overcame my dismay. If, as my program tells me, the opening of the Old Library Theater marks "a dynamic new era in the history of the House"--why, fellows, did you pick something as stale as Greasepaint for your opening volley?